


Love is the Death of Duty

by lonevvanderer



Series: What-if Westeros [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daenerys knows exactly what she's doing, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Dark fic, Execution, F/M, Jon is trying his best, Mad Queen Daenerys Targaryen, S8E6, What-If, please don't take it too seriously, post-season 8, this entire series is the equivalent of a crack-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25595992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonevvanderer/pseuds/lonevvanderer
Summary: The what-ifs of Westeros...Jon Snow does not assassinate Daenerys Targaryen after the destruction of King's Landing.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: What-if Westeros [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819012
Comments: 29
Kudos: 52





	Love is the Death of Duty

Jon trembled as Dany pulled him into a kiss. Her lips were sweet. Soft. Unafraid. Jon almost envied it, the innocence of such an act. But the woman behind the lips had just burned thousands. She promised a new world. A scorched one.

Tyrion had told him to kill her. Her death would save the realm, save his sisters. But when Jon’s hand hovered over the hilt of his blade he found himself unable to grasp it. Her lips were so sweet, so loving. He had missed them dearly. He would miss them forevermore. She had begged him to rule with her. Surely he could do more good at her side than at the end of a dagger? What was to happen afterwards? Another war?

Could Jon plunge steel into the heart of a woman he claimed to love?

Jon’s hand dropped from where it hovered and moved to grasp the small of her back. She smiled as they kissed, her delicate hands wrapped in the collar of his leather tunic. From Jon’s eyes, tears fell. Daenerys pulled back as she felt the warm tears fall on her own face, a curious look on her face, her eyebrows etched in concern.

“Is everything alright, my love?” She asked.

“I’m fine,” Jon cleared his throat and sighed, his breath ragged and fraught with grief. “It’s just-”

“Just what?” Daenerys interrupted.

“Tyrion had… asked something of me,” Jon said evenly. “He asked me to kill you.”

Daenerys’ eyes flared in anger, but she maintained the polite and sweet smile on her young face. She said nothing, just a simple ‘oh’ as she realised her Hand had begged of her assassination. She clasped his collar again, tighter this time, pressed against him as much as she possibly could.

“You said now and always, did you not?” Daenerys said softly. “Do you mean it? _Always_?”

Jon looked into her eyes. Tears threatened to burst from her blue-violet orbs, and Jon almost joined her in her grief. Yes, he had said always, not a minute or so ago. A sentence, yes, but he had also just taken an oath.

“Always,” Jon smiled.

He would always be by her side. He would always endeavour to temper her anger and help her make the best and most merciful decisions. That was the oath he had just taken.

“Good,” Daenerys smiled back.

Her smile was different this time. Odd. Her nostrils flared with barely controlled rage and her eyes grew wider and unblinking with every second that passed. Jon realised that he had just signed Tyrion’s death warrant.

* * *

She dragged him along with her, a soft hand in his, as she walked joyfully to the courtyard outside. She murmured something to her Unsullied guards - something about Tyrion and ‘bring’. Jon really needed to learn more Valyrian.

Outside, the ash was finally beginning to settle. It looked more like snow. Drogon lay on the other end of the large outdoor space, peaceful amongst the wreckage of the outer Red Keep. He perked up at the sight of his mother, a slow rumble emanating from him as she let go of Jon’s hand and moved it to stroke her son.

Jon looked around warily, and in the distance spotted a group of Unsullied surrounding a smaller man. Tyrion. The dwarf’s eyes grew wide as he saw Jon stand by the Queen’s side, his steps faltering as he drew ever nearer to the black beast at Daenerys’ back.

Daenerys had not spotted him yet, or at least refused to acknowledge him, as she was too busy adorning praise on her biggest and now, only, son. Jon took his position, just as he had done when she wanted to be rid of Lord Varys.

As his hands clasped behind his back, Jon’s faith faltered. Here he was, again, standing aside as she consolidated her power and sentenced a man to death because of Jon’s actions. Lord Varys, Jon had understood. The man was trying to poison her, was trying to put him on that blasted Iron Throne instead of her. He had been unnerved, but he had not felt _wrong_ to commit the eunuch to the flames.

Tyrion looked at the two frightfully, panic setting in as he wrung his hands as best he could while in chains. Jon stared down and refused to look the man he once called a friend in the eye.

Daenerys turned slowly to face her old Hand. She took a step forward, her hands clenching and unclenching with every second.

“You told me you wanted to break the wheel, Tyrion,” Daenerys sneered. “What changed?”

“What changed?!” Tyrion exclaimed. “You slaughtered a city!”

“ _That_ is Cersei’s fault! I offered them a chance to surrender at the gates, and they threw it back in my face with Missandei’s head!” Daenerys yelled. “I keep my word, Lord Tyrion. I said the sky would fall down upon them and _it did_.”

Jon knew of no such conversation, of no such plans. Had she really informed Tyrion of her intent to refuse their surrender? Surely then, Tyrion should have expected this? Tyrion stammered and stuttered, utterly afraid and baffled at the words streaming from Daenerys’ mouth.

“When… When did you fall so far?” Tyrion asked softly.

Daenerys did not answer. Her face was stern, yet blank. Her rage had cooled into an icy stare, capable of killing the men who were caught in it.

“Dovaogēdy, dekuragon arlī,” Daenerys commanded. Step back, she had ordered. There would be no talking down the Queen, so Tyrion turned his attention from her and to Jon.

“Jon! Jon, surely you are of sane mind! Stop her!” Tyrion begged. “This is your last chance!”

Daenerys nearly snarled at Tyrion’s words. Jon simply stared mournfully. He was right, this was his last chance. He was doing this because he was of sane mind, because he could help her rule more fairly than her speech on the steps intended. 

“Forgive me, Tyrion,” Jon said sadly.

“No! I won’t! You’re making a mistake!” Tyrion bellowed.

_Perhaps I am_ , Jon thought, _But what sort of man am I if I don’t at least try?_

Daenerys had had enough, and stepped forward in unbridled rage and listed off her titles, his sentence, his doom.

“Dracarys,” She whispered bitterly.

The hot flame of Drogon engulfed the dwarf, his screams carried away into the wind in a matter of short seconds. He collapsed to the floor, a heap of burned clothes and melting flesh, and with that, House Lannister was dead.

When Jon turned to look at Daenerys, she already stared at him. She glided towards him, a beauty amongst the ruin, and grasped both his hands delicately.

“Together, remember?” She whispered. “That’s what you said.”

“Together,” Jon replied.

* * *

He remembered little of what happened the next few weeks.

The city still lay in ruins, though the Unsullied were slowly working their way through the rubble. Daenerys had said something to him one evening, of what she wanted of her kingdom. She wanted it to be beautiful. _But first I must rid it of the ugly_ , she had whispered in his ear.

First, she went for the Lannister soldiers. In a matter of days, most of them had been swiftly executed or driven from the capital. Daenerys was intent that none of them should flee across the Narrow Sea, lest she has an uprising a decade from now - just as she had come to eventually reclaim her throne.

After that, she had demanded the lords of the realm bend the knee. Upon seeing the capital in ruin, many did, their knees shaking and their lips trembling as they swore their fealty to the Dragon Queen. Dorne, leaderless, had no unified response, and so Daenerys swiftly took it upon herself to name the first Dornishman of loyalty the new Prince of Dorne, at Jon’s suggestion. Nearly all of them knelt within the day, and she chose House Yronwood as her new leader of Dorne. Those that didn’t… burned. No third chances, she had said.

When Grey Worm dragged in the young Lord Hightower, Jon tried his best not to flinch. His face was beaten and bloody, and his knees were broken for his defiance. He had attempted to raise a host against the Queen, declaring her a madwoman. 

“Fuck you! Whore!” The Lord shouted.

Daenerys simply laughed, her fingers grasping the mangled Iron Throne. Jon opened his mouth to defend her, for Daenerys was not a whore, but Daenerys opened her mouth first.

“Why must you fight, my Lord?” She bellowed. “Why must you stand in the way of change?”

Lord Hightower spat on the floor in front of her and growled, and Daenerys could not conceal her temper any longer. She stood, as mighty and proud as any king who had come before her, and demanded his blood.

“Take him to the Dragonpit!” She shouted. “My son needs his dinner.”

When they dragged the screaming man back out of the room, Jon did not move. He did not say anything this time, for what could he possibly do? He turned back to her, and she smiled at him lovingly and begged him to come to join her for supper.

He liked eating with her. She spoke of stories and legends from the east. She would tell him how much she loved him. They would ignore what she was doing. Jon would ignore what she was doing.

* * *

Jon sent letter after letter, in the hopes his family would understand their efforts were hopeless. He wanted it to be resolved peacefully.

> _Dear Sister,_
> 
> _I understand that change can be hard to bear, but you must understand how things operate now. Daenerys is harsher than most, I will give you that, but can you not see I try my best to temper her fury?_
> 
> _The realm is in enough turmoil already. We are recovering from war after war. We can’t have another. We must be stronger together. I beg of you, Sansa, change course. Northern Independence is a fantasy, lost to us in this new age._
> 
> _Your dear brother, Jon._

Her reply arrived mere days later.

> _Jon,_
> 
> _Daenerys is a madwoman. There is no other way to put it. The North will never be safe under her rule, and I simply will not allow another drop of Northern blood to spill because of the greed of Southerners._
> 
> _You were our King, Jon. King in the North - or have you forgotten? Have you let yourself be blinded by your love for a monster? Can you not see reality any longer?_
> 
> _Your Sister, Sansa._

* * *

The North didn’t kneel either. And for that, Jon wept.

He sat in one of the council rooms of the Red Keep, his face haggard and tired from the nightmares that plagued him. Daenerys sat next to him, engrossed a book on the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Jon admired her as she read, her concentration unbroken even by the roars of Drogon just outside.

Jon wondered then if she was in the right, as they awaited the final response of the Queen in the North. Sansa had herself named the second they had heard of Jon’s fealty to Daenerys, and even Arya had fled from the capital at the rumours. Apparently, Arya wasn’t in the North either.

It had been weeks since the battle, and with every day Jon’s morality seeped from him. Had many men had he executed, this week alone? How many castles were still smoking, because he had only managed to convince Dany to burn half, and not all of them? Was he still a good person, he wondered?

A maester ran in, parchment in hand.

Jon sprang from his seat and snatched it from the old man, desperate to hear of its contents. Daenerys hadn’t even moved, her face like stone and her hands slowly placing down the tome she had been reading. He opened it, broke the direwolf seal and read it frantically.

> _To Daenerys Targaryen and our Traitor Bastard Brother_
> 
> _The North knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark. Jon of all people should know that. We care not of Jon’s ‘intentions’ or ‘purpose’ behind staying at the side of a murderer, and we care not of what she thinks of her right to rule the North._
> 
> _We refuse to bend the knee to such an evil woman. Let the North be free as it was thousands of years before her disgusting family arrived on our shores._
> 
> _Sansa Stark, Queen in the North._

Jon wiped a hand over his face, tears threatening to stream from his tired eyes. Why wouldn’t they understand? Why don’t they get it?! He was trying to help everyone! He wasn’t a traitor, he wasn’t a traitor, he wasn’t a traitor.

“What is it?” Daenerys asked softly.

Jon calmed at the sound of her voice. She had understood, when he had told her. She knew what he was trying to do and she had allowed it. Sansa called her a murderer, disgusting, evil - but would such a wicked person smile at him so sweetly?

“The North… has refused, your Grace,” Jon said quietly.

Her face did not shift and her eyes stayed transfixed on him. Silence rushed into the room, filling and crushing the space in between them as both refused to speak.

“Oh,” was all she said.

Daenerys stood from her seat, and walked slowly around the table, her hand gracing gently across the oak wood. She did not break their intense eye contact, nor say another word. She looked menacing but beautiful, Jon thought. As she dared closer, Jon was equal parts afraid and in love.

“Jon, my love,” Daenerys said softly, her face just in front of his. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see they don’t want to help?”

“I… don’t know. I don’t know why I thought they’d kneel.” Jon whispered to himself.

Daenerys pushed closer to him, her breath hot on his face. “What happens to things that don’t bend, Jon?”

_They break_.

Her eyes bore into his, the soft violet beckoning him to answer.

“But must we, Dany? They-” He began.

“- have declared themselves to be in open rebellion.” Daenerys interrupted. “And what good could that possibly do for the realm?”

She was right, wasn’t she? Another war would simply get more people killed. It would plunge the realm further into chaos. Sansa was going to try to kill her, wasn’t she? She was going to take Dany from him.

“Maybe we should try talking to her?” Jon said softly.

Daenerys smiled and placed a hand on his black-clad arm. The touch was tender. Warm.

“Of course, my love. We’ll try that first.” She said sweetly.

* * *

When they met Sansa upon the banks of the Trident, Jon trembled. The wind had gotten colder, and the sun shone a little less bright. He feared for what would pour from Sansa’s mouth. The Unsullied and Dothraki stood sentinel around the outcropping they had chosen, the Northmen stood on the far side opposite to them. All of them looked at him with bitter stares, but Jon knew it was because they simply didn’t understand. He was trying to help them.

Daenerys sat atop her horse, power emanating from her black and red dress and armour. Jon admired her, the darker colours suiting her hair and colouring. With each passing day, he forgot how scary she looked.

Sansa rode in atop a white horse, her hair loose and bright red amongst all the dark colours. Her face was solemn and stern, and her eyes bit into him with a hatred he had never seen from his younger sister.

“What do you want?!” Sansa yelled from across the clearing.

Daenerys looked to Jon absently, indicating for him to ride across and meet her. Jon pushed his grey horse to move, closer and closer until he was only a few feet away from Sansa.

“Sansa,” Jon began.

“I am Queen in the North, Jon. You will address me as such.” Sansa sneered.

“There is no Queen in the North. Sansa, we have to work together. We need to recover.” Jon retorted.

“Recover? You’re right, we do. We need to recover from _her_. She should have been dead months ago!” Sansa snapped back, her hands grasping tighter at the reins of her anxious horse.

Jon shook his head slowly. How could he get her to see? To understand? He was the only thing stopping Daenerys from putting her down.

“Sansa,” Jon said again, earning him an icy glare. “Please understand. This is folly. You cannot win. Isn’t the North’s survival more important than your pride?”

Sansa scoffed, angrier than she had been before. “You are lost. You are no blood of the North, to abandon it so eagerly. Go back to your mother of monsters, to your butcher! You’ll find no love from us any longer!”

She sped off, the Northern host galloping behind her with thundering hooves as Jon looked on in defeat. In the middle of the field, he felt alone. More alone than he had ever felt. His family had abandoned him. Arya wasn’t even here.

Later that night, Jon told her everything. Every insult, every bitter comment she had made during their brief conversation. Her anger had flared and her eyes had burned, but at the sight of him, she calmed, and that night, she kissed him and loved him. Perhaps Daenerys loved him more than any of the Starks had ever done.

* * *

Every night, Jon dreamed of fire.

It crackled and burned and screamed. Inside it, people flaked away as their skin melted and their bones shattered. Jon liked the heat of it. It warmed him. Made him feel alive.

Was this how Daenerys felt? When she committed a man to the flames? Did it make her feel safe and powerful?

Every morning, he would wake, and Daenerys would lay by his side peacefully. He would hold her and kiss her as she slowly came awake. Because he loved her. How could ever have killed a woman who he loved so dearly?

Sometimes, he’d see his dreams of fire throughout the day, but Jon would shake them away before anyone would notice his blank stare.

Daenerys saw, though. Daenerys noticed.

* * *

When the day finally came, Jon didn’t weep. They stood, a few miles from Winterfell, proud and solitude on the rolling of the winter hills. Hand in hand, Jon felt on top of the world, but his heart was heavy with this last failure. He would protect the realm, but he could not protect his family from their defiance.

Jon stayed where he was, as he watched Daenerys mount Drogon and shoot into the sky. It burned. Brighter and hotter than King’s Landing, the snow melting away with each sweep and each dive. You could hear the screaming, but Jon chose not to listen.

He was entranced by the dance of the flames, mesmerised by the flicker and shake of the heat from the floor. He wanted to be nearer, to dare closer. He wanted to stick his hand in the fire and see what it would do.

She looked so magical, atop her fiery steed, Jon thought. From here, she didn’t look like a madwoman. Why were they calling her a madwoman? Jon thought her eyes looked sane, thought her eyes looked pretty. She would sing him sweet songs and debate their methods. Was she mad, or simply ruthless? Why were all these people calling her names when they simply _didn’t know_?

Jon knew. He knew how much he liked the fire. He knew how much he loved the woman who unleashed it. Fire and blood, so simple, yet so beautiful. Jon watched on in apathy as the great walls of Winterfell melted and cracked, but cracked a maddening smile as he watched the flames dance at his Queen’s command.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment any what-ifs below! Doing a series of random ideas!
> 
> [Disclaimer: This isn't me hating on any particular character, condoning any actions etc. Just a crack-fic for a what-if of Westeros that my friends and I have thought up, and a chance to practice my writing *finger guns*]
> 
> Edited 5/9/20: Original ending removed to allow for your own personal head canon for what happened with Arya and the aftermath of Winterfell. Some comments were really getting to me, and while people are allowed their own opinions, I don’t have the thickest skin and I was only writing this for fun. Sorry.


End file.
